Dust And Tap Dancing
by Gwen's Blue Box
Summary: The first time it happens, he is sitting in a bar, with some colleagues of his. And as he's sitting there, he suddenly notices something. Dust. Dust, looking almost as if it was tap dancing. - How do you continue after your best friend's death? How do you go on with your life? And why does dust suddenly become important? A Miles one-shot. Rated T for language.


"_Sorry! I know. It's just...like "being", 'is-ness' I can't help but see myself...like the dust dancing in the flickerlight of a projector at the cinema. A million atoms of constant... sort __of is-ness..._

_[…]_

_Picture me tap dancing across the firmament and I'll be well satisfied!_

_[…]_

_After your 'dancing across the stars', you want to hear that I think there's nothing? That you're going to rot and that's __it?"_

_Third Star_

The first time it happens, he is sitting in bar, with some colleagues of his. Having a few drinks, after a long and successful day at work. Chloe's waiting for him at home, together with the girls, probably, but some evenings, he just can't bring himself to go home immediately. She's the one, no doubt, but though… he sometimes needs time on his own, just like before. So he's spending this Thursday evening with colleagues from work.

He still does it, his job. Couldn't bring himself to give it up. In the nights he can't find any sleep, he often finds himself sitting in front of his notebook, staring at the words he has written. Once. A long time ago. Words he had never intended to read again.

He just sits there, for minutes, maybe for hours, while Chloe and the girls are sleeping soundly in their beds, and stares. Stares at the words and can't seem to see them nonetheless. And, as he has found out with shock, even thinks about trying to find a publisher for the crap he's written. So many times, he has been about to send copies to various publishers, to ask for… But he never does it. Always hesitates before sending the e-mail, and then deletes everything he has originally intended to send.

Bugger, he then thinks. Bugger, bugger, bugger, bugger.

After slamming his notebook shut, he returns to bed, listens to Chloe's peaceful breathing, tries to lose himself in her scent – and finally manages to fall asleep again, usually shortly before his alarm rings and wakes him, to face another day at work.

So, this evening. There's a full pint standing in front of him, two glasses already emptied. He's laughing and joking, as he always is, senseless banter. Even starting to talk about new ads, new strategies… talking about the job. Sometimes, he already starts to wonder if he's slowly becoming a square.

And as he's sitting there, listening to some joke he actually doesn't pay any attention to, he suddenly notices something. Dust, clearly visible in the electric light falling from the ceiling. Dust, seeming almost… to defy gravity.

Words come to his mind, unbidden, but forceful. About tap dancing… and dust. Closing his eyes briefly and deciding that he needs to take a holiday, he raises his pint and downs a good third of it in a few large gulps. Time to have fun.

When he returns home that night, he switches on his notebook and stares at the large text document. Chloe calls him from the bedroom, and he decides that everything else can wait. This bloody book can wait at least one more day, as it has been waiting for so many years now.

This night, he sleeps soundly himself, Chloe in his arms.

It happens again.

This time, he's just watching some strange, supposedly romantic movie, together with Chloe – and only because he promised her so. In the cinema. It's a crap movie, in his opinion, some dudes just talking and talking and talking… about everything, it seems. Always so damn honest and sincere. But Chloe seems to enjoy it, so he keeps his mouth shut. Doesn't comment on anything, not even one sarcastic remark. The thing is, that's what he's good at. Being a cynist. Definitely not at talking, not with the real, serious stuff.

Some blokes right behind him just don't want to shut up, and it's slowly starting to bloody annoy him. He doesn't want to hear anything about that guy's problems in his relationship, or about the other one's problems with shagging.

He grits his teeth and simply tries to ignore them, ignore their fucking little pissy voices. Doesn't work, though, and when one of them suddenly starts to decribe his latest experience with a young girl in a public telephone box, he's had enough.

Quickly, he turns around and tries to look at them in an intimidating way. "Would it be possible for you to just shut up?," he asks.

Chloe's hand is on his arm. "Darling," she begins, but he cuts her off.

"Just watch this bloody movie and keep your fucking mouths shut, yeah? There are people here who actually _want_ to watch it!"

And this is the moment when it happens again. Right when he's staring at those annoying blokes, when he's staring to the back of the cinema, to the projector… there's the dust again. Dust, dancing. In flickering light.

Dust. Tap dancing. Damn words.

"Whataya starin' at?" one of the guys suddenly teases him. "Lost it, he?"

In fact, Miles does. He loses it, jumps up from his seat and throws a solid fist into that moron's face, hear his nose break with a satisfying crack.

People are yelling around him, blood is colouring his knuckles, Chloe looks at him with a shocked expression on her face – but Miles feels better.

He doesn't say anything as he is escorted out of the cinema by two members of staff or as Chloe follows him, still somewhat stunned. When they have reached the door, he throws one look back – the dust is still there, still visible in the colourful light of the cinema projector.

Damn it, he can't help to think, but somehow, a smile appears on his lips.

Better not to tell Chloe that it is due to his dead best friend that he has been thrown out of that bloody cinema.

In that night, after they're home again, Miles decides to talk to Chloe. Maybe to apologise, that's what he should do.

They've soon covered apologising – Chloe knows him, and understands him, and so he doesn't need to make many words. Soon, they are entangled in each other's limbs, dazed and exhausted, but there is still one thing Miles cannot stop thinking about.

"Chloe," he whispers.

She only hums in response.

"Do you…" Difficult. Why is he actually doing this? Well, he knows why. He knows bloody why. Damn it, James. "Do you think there is something after death?" Out. Finally.

"What," Chloe mumbles sleepily. "I… I don't know. Maybe. Can't we talk about that… tomorrow?"

Miles kisses her and watches her fall asleep. Hasn't answered his question.

Tomorrow. He doesn't think he will be able to utter that bloody question again, not during… daylight.

Never mind.

Because as he studies the thin layer of dust covering their nightstand and then gazes out of the window, into the starry firmament, he thinks he has found his answer.

_That's what I decided after my Dad died. – Really? – Yeah._

Not really, no. Just an easy solution.

"You bugger," he mumbles.

Eight months later, his first book is published. The book he finished years ago, the book that has spent the past few years as a text document on his bloody computer. The book James has read and has found to be good.

Published.

He's become an author, somehow, and as he presses Chloe close and smiles into the cameras of the photographers waiting, he suddenly feels alive again.

And whenever someone asks him what the dedication in his book means – _You bugger. Look what you've done._ – he simply smiles and remembers the dust dancing in the flicker-light of the cinema projector.


End file.
